Though his ears were still chaste when we married, my left one had already been pierced nine times. Before our wedding, though, I had taken an oath: In the noble tradition of the Amish men who forsake shaving upon wedlock, I had vowed not to pierce my ears again once I was married.

I wish I could say the commitment was driven by a rejection of vanity. Truth was I was tired, quite literally, of sleeping on what felt like a bed of nails.

That's why, for our anniversary, I was planning to pierce my nose.

When the big evening arrived I reviewed the instructions for the babysitter: "Kids are fed, teeth are brushed. You know the drill. Oh yeah, if you need us, we'll be at the tattoo parlor..."

It was your typical suburban date night.

Arriving at Ninth Street's DogStar Tattoo, we tried our best to blend in with the pierced and decorated clientele. We casually browsed through a list of potentially pierceable body parts. Though it had been conveniently separated into male and female columns, a subsequent conversation would reveal that between us we were only able to recognize the names of about 33 percent of the body parts listed.

Trust me, you do not want to know.

Choosing a simple shiny stud, I stepped forward to get my nose pierced.

I knew from the last 10 extraneous holes I'd had drilled into my head that there's a gun that just shoots the stud in there and then it's over. While being disinfected, I waited for the technician to pull out the gun. If there was ever a moment that I wanted to be shot, this was it.

Come to find out, the procedure would be performed without the benefit of an automatic weapon. This was the moment when I began to realize that my facial future was in the hands of a 21-year-old. Apparently the idea was that he was going to push a piece of metal through my tender, non-anesthetized nose flesh. He explained that my eye on the pierced side would tear, but not the other one.

Clearly, he had no idea that I would most likely be bawling and squealing like a pig.

Another employee breezing past did a double-take of the khaki-pants prep and his very mom-like bride. Her startled expression seemed to say, "What are Ward and June Cleaver doing in here?" I fluffed my hair back to prove I had just as many holes as she did, but she was blinded by the glare of my pink and green "Soccer Mom!" t-shirt.

Before I knew it, I'd been pierced. Because DogStar had no small ear studs for my groom, I quietly promised I'd take him to Northgate Mall where all the 12-year-old girls go. Armed with post-nasal care instructions, we were on our way.

Over the next days and weeks we both cared for our self-inflicted flesh wounds. I had no intention of letting an infection set in and losing a nose to gangrene, that's for sure. Twice daily I would hold a coffee cup to my face and bend over to soak my nose in a warm saline solution. Go ahead and take a moment to visualize that. Better yet, just try putting your nose in your java tomorrow morning. I assure you, it's unnatural.

Jesting friends would later rib us, "So, if this is how you celebrated your 10th anniversary, will you get tattoos for your 20th?!"

Don't put it past us.

See you then, DogStar.